


To Poison A Prince

by BornDead



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Assassins, Happy birthday to my Shaky queen, M/M, Princes, a murder most foul, a war, and, fairytale AU, i give you, no gods no betas, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26416057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BornDead/pseuds/BornDead
Summary: As Royal Assassin, Vanitas has spilled his share of blood. He has yet to miss any of his marks. When the King sends him to dispatch with the most detested enemy of the Kingdom, Vanitas expects everything to be business as usual. He certainly doesn’t expect to fall in love.(folks, i swear i'll be back to finish this soon)
Relationships: Vanitas/Ventus (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 51





	1. The Assassin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaky-Mayhem](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shaky-Mayhem).



> Happy birthday, Shaky. I wanted to give you a fairytale for your birthday because you deserve all the magic and wonderment in the world. Thank you for being such a being of goodness.

_ I only knew what hunted thought _  
_ Quickened his step, and why _  
_ He looked upon the garish day _  
_ With such a wistful eye; _  
_ The man had killed the thing he loved _  
_ And so he had to die. _

_ Yet each man kills the thing he loves _  
_ By each let this be heard, _  
_ Some do it with a bitter look, _  
_ Some with a flattering word, _  
_ The coward does it with a kiss, _  
_ The brave man with a sword! _

_\- The Ballad of Reading Gaol, O. Wilde_

* * *

**Vanitas** had heard the stories about the Golden Kingdom hundreds of times before already. He didn’t need to hear the portly bard tell tales of how their proud and lovely Queen Kairi was cut low by the bastard Sun King to remind him why they were the enemy. 

Three generations before, when both Bright and Night Courts lived in a fragile coexistence, the Queen had set out to negotiate a trade agreement with the then Sun King, Lea. She was ambushed, however, and Lea took a dagger to her heart. The sorrowful King Saix of the Shade had arrived too late to save his wife, and saw the blood-soaked blade still dripping in Lea’s hand. His aim steady and true, King Saix avenged his wife, drawing his deadly blade across the throat of the murderer. 

The two Kingdoms had been at war ever since.

This history was woven into the daily lives of the citizens of the Shade. The Night Court lived quietly, a sea of somber colors and hardworking craftspeople. Renowned for their smithing, there was never anything quite so deadly or beautiful as a Shade blade. 

Life was not frivolous and debauched in the Shade like in the Golden Kingdom. The Brightlings lived raucously, drunk and lustful, their denizens wild, cunning, and as likely to slip a knife in your back as to give you a kiss. In the Bright Court they danced freely, loudly, half clothed and wild. Those who lived there were immoral and thought only of themselves. They were vicious with their arrows and spears, and even deadlier with their pretty lies. 

The rumor about town was that the Brightlings could lie so well that they could sometimes even manipulate reality. Silver-tongued devils, the lot of them. That was why it was best to quickly dispatch them of the offensive organ. 

Above all else though, Brightlings respected and revered passion. They were always touching and kissing, quick to shed their clothing and join their bodies so needlessly. The idea was so stark in contrast to the modus operandi of Nightlings that it was nearly laughable.

One must only behold a Nightling betrothal pact once to be reminded that love must always be cast aside in favor of strength. While lovers elsewhere may have exchanged silver bands weighed down by precious stones, the citizens of the Shade had instead altered this tradition to replace the frivolous token of companionship with something much more fitting a warrior: a weapon.

Vanitas had no need to imagine the sword he would one day make for the person foolish enough to dare capture his heart. He had no need to, and yet Vanitas sometimes thought he could still see it in his mind’s eye. A brilliant silver thing, it would be, with a gilded handle of gold, crescent moon etched onto the pommel. Vanitas certainly did not imagine this blade when his eyes caught a glimpse of the eyes of pretty boys and girls in the Court. He shoved those daydreams down deep, buried them. 

Vanitas abhorred the idea of love. Lust, greed, famine: these are concepts he had already mastered in his first 22 years. Love remained a fickle and elusive beast, one Vanitas hoped to one day capture if only so that he could strike it down himself. Love was the ultimate sign of weakness, and in the Shade, weakness was worse than death. 

While some of his peers had enjoyed the comfort of one another in their formative years, Vanitas had focused his attention on becoming the most dangerous person in the Shade. Growing up an orphan, hungry and bruised on the streets, he vowed to pull himself out of the trenches of poverty by any means necessary. 

Vanitas studied sword fighting, grappling, and archery. He ran swiftly, molding his body into a weapon, and learned all he could about all he could. As the years dragged on, Vanitas found that he much preferred stealth and deception over brute force, and fortunately his talents found him quite suited for a life of subterfuge. 

During the day, Vanitas exercised his brain by memorizing the alchemical composition of potions and poisons, and by the moonlight he practiced his trickery, traversing the world silent and unseen. 

Finally the day had come for Vanitas to prove his mettle. He needed a spectacle, something bold and outrageous that would pull him from obscurity and into the ranks of those most feared. 

At 18, he finally found his chance. Vanitas had been able to sneak within the perimeter of the King’s retinue, a move that would have surely gotten Vanitas hanged had the act not proven him an asset to the King. As it were, Vanitas was spared death, and made Assassin to the King. Those unfortunate enough to have allowed Vanitas through the King’s barriers had been the first royal marks Vanitas had been deployed upon.

Weakness was simply not tolerated in the Shade. Not a soul blinked twice at the sudden disappearance of the long-serving Kingsguard, or the new replacements already in place. The guards had failed their one duty, and though technically illegal, murdering those unfit to serve the King was a crime proudly looked away from. Instead of murdered or otherwise recorded dead, the guards simply ceased to live in the eyes of the law. 

A bell tolled somewhere in the distance, sending up a swarm of birdlike Floods into the air. The creatures called the Night Court home and paid no mind to the humans in their midst. Vanitas enjoyed the company of Floods and had spent a great deal of time befriending the monsters. He had once been able to coax a wyvern-like Flood into allowing Vanitas to harvest its glistening feathers. The soft midnight down could be used to make a powerful poison, should the need arise, though Vanitas shuddered to think what sort of person would warrant such an overkill. The ash from a wyvern Flood’s burned feathers could knock down even an Amantoise with scarce over a thimbleful. Not that Vanitas had tested this. 

Despite his haughty attitude and impressive confidence, Vanitas was quite a lean thing, tall and thin. While not physically intimidating, he could blend into the background with nary a blink. Clothed in the royal color of black, he disappeared in the shadows as easily as one might take a bow. Like a ghost, he appeared and disappeared, death and destruction following him like a loyal hound. 

Compared to alternatives, Vanitas was a quick death, clean and beautiful. His poisons were the most deadly in the land, and the antidotes were known only to him. The victim’s cheeks would still remain rosy and give off the countenance of full health even hours after the poison had stopped their heart. The royal assassin could be there and done with the deed before anyone had noticed his mark had died. 

It wasn’t a bad job, all things considered. He had a room near the bottom of the Castle, and no longer went hungry. He had no want for clothing or books, and the prestige of being the Court Assassin kept him untouchable and formidable. If a few dead nobles and disgraced gentry were the cost of safety, it was a price he’d happily pay. 

Vanitas had not yet considered what might happen to him when he no longer was as invaluable to King Xehanort. What use was an old and slow assassin? He’d make sure to save them the trouble of making him a mark though. When the time would come that his hands might shake before sneaking some poison into a gentleman’s cup, he’d be sure to end things himself. Not all poisons had antidotes, after all. 

As Vanitas walked past the main road, his nose was assaulted with the sour stench of rot. Another day, another wagon filled with bodies retrieved from the front line. Even from his distance, the smell of death was strong. Vanitas bowed his head slightly in respect for his fellow countrymen and women. They had died a noble death and would reap the benefits of such. Their bodies would be laid to rest in the cavernous hollow beneath the castle. A quiet and peaceful final destination for those who were worthy. 

Crossing into the market, the scene gradually shifted into something a bit less dour. To his left a man prepared a makeshift altar, black and red candles dripping fat, waxy tears across the stone surface of a well. The anniversary of the late Queen's betrayal, always a solemn celebration in the Shade, was set to begin sundown next week. The Night Court would be illuminated by the flickering candles shortly. For the week leading up to the Queen’s Day, nobles and commoners alike would fill their homes and spaces with the candles until the final day where King Xehanort would order the lights out. All at once then, the candles would be snuffed out in memory of the Queen. King Xehanort would extinguish the flame burning at the top of the castle, just as his King Father did before him, and then the whole Shade would be purged into darkness. 

Vanitas never particularly liked this celebration but would participate nonetheless. He would weave crimson thread into his hair, an ode to Queen Kairi’s fiery mane, and fill his cup with the darkest wine as the moon reached its peak, as was tradition. Blessed are those who seek refuge in darkness for their chalice shall never empty. Nightlings find strength in the extinguishing of the light, in the power of darkness. The wine represented spilled blood, and vengeance. It was a renewed vow to avenge their fallen Queen. 

A loud squawk sliced through the morning’s stillness. Vanitas’s eyes were immediately drawn to the inky plumage of one of the royal chocobos ahead. Astride the black creature sat Aqua, the formidable Commander of the Night Army. Upon glimpsing Vanitas, Aqua urged the beast forward, parting townsfolk as she passed. 

Vanitas leaned against the stone exterior of a nearby shop and waited for her approach. He wondered absently what she could be doing in this part of town, alone, on such a random day. 

“Assassin,” Aqua said formally, jutting her chin out to acknowledge Vanitas. She slid down her mount gracefully and removed her gleaming helmet. Vanitas always forgot how young and pretty the Commander was until he was forced to take in the sight of her. 

“Commander,” Vanitas purred.   
  


“I come to urge you back to the castle grounds. The King would have a word with you.”

Vanitas raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “A mark so soon to the Queen’s Day? Isn’t that bad luck?”

Aqua scowled. “Are you doubting the intentions of our most hallowed King?”

Vanitas waved her off and pushed up off the building. “Nothing of the sort. I’ll head to this audience at once.”

The Commander nodded curly before signaling for her feathered beast to kneel down so that she could more easily regain her seat. 

“Do be quick, Assassin. He grows impatient even as we speak.”

* * *

  
**Though** Vanitas lived in the castle, he had only once before been called directly in front of the King.  
  


He had only been in his position for nearly a year when the King had brought Vanitas to his side and detailed the assassination. If Vanitas’s face betrayed the surprise he felt hearing the King’s order to take out his eldest child, Strelitzia, Xemnas pretended not to notice. 

It had to be a test, Vanitas figured. When pushed to the limit did Vanitas serve the King or the Shade? Vanitas still didn’t know the answer, but he had snuck the poison into the Princess’s dinner all the same. 

To be called into the throne room again could mean only one thing: his newest mark must be equally important. Whoever was unlucky enough to be killed, the King trusted no intermediates to deliver the message to Vanitas.

Perhaps this would be interesting. 

The guards to the throne room permitted Vanitas entrance and he tried to disguise the wonderment he felt at the opulence of the place. The slate walls were studded with diamonds and topaz, imitating an endless midnight sky. The lights burned low and cast glittering light across the stones. The polished black marble of the floor shone like the top of an icy lake. 

At the far end of the room sat Xehanort, reclined lazy against an elaborately designed throne. A cruel smile played across his face as he watched Vanitas approach. The room felt ominously empty all at once.

“Come closer, my little reaper,” the old man called in a sing-songy voice. 

Vanitas dare not speak but drew nearer. The echo of his boots across the floor seemed to go on forever. When appropriately close, Vanitas knelt to both knees and dipped his head toward his liege. 

“I was pleased with your most recent work. Quite impressive to dispatch an entire barrack single-handedly. You saved our soldiers much bloodshed. Queen Namine has already withdrawn the remainder of her troops from the Western front.”

“I am pleased to serve you, my King.”

“I have need of your talents once again.”

“You need only ask.”

The King cleared his throat and allowed a pregnant pause before continuing. “I’ve never asked such a thing of you before. I fear that this may prove even too difficult for you, my most trusted executioner.”

Vanitas couldn’t help but allow his eyes to flicker across the King’s face. Was he being _baited?_ A kill is a kill. Details might change, but Vanitas had never come upon a man or woman he could not end. 

“Yes?” he prodded. 

“I have had word that the Queen intends to abdicate her throne in favor of her son upon his upcoming birthday. I would like very much for him to not see the day.”

Vanitas cocked his head to the side. Kill a Prince. The incredulousness of the idea nearly made Vanitas laugh. 

“The Queen is old and with her son dies the last of the tyrant Lea’s line. This feud could be over in a week’s time.”

“A week?” Vanitas gasped.

“I thought the death of the Prince would be a fitting tribute to my grandmother’s memory. When better to avenge her death than on the anniversary of her betrayal?”

Vanitas gaped at the King. He tried to rein in his fear, but the massive undertaking before him seemed impossible. 

Assassinate a Prince in seven days. He’d have to get started straight away. 


	2. The Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe people are reading this.

_Let your poetry fill up  
_ _the equinoctial pastry shop  
_ _our mouths long to devour—  
_ _the mouths of all the children  
_ _and the poor adults also.  
_ _Don’t go on without seeing,  
_ _relishing, understanding  
_ _so many hearts of sugar._

_Don’t be afraid of sweetness._

_With us or without us,  
_ _sweetness will go on living  
_ _and is infinitely alive,  
_ _and forever being revived,  
_ _for it’s in the mouth,  
_ _whether singing or eating,  
_ _that sweetness belongs._

_\- Dulce, Siempre (translated), P. Neruda_

* * *

**Many** have daydreamed about becoming a Prince or Princess. It’s an innocent fantasy, really. A mysterious orphan becomes an unlikely heir to a throne. In the sanctum of the wandering mind, secret children, once hidden away in obscurity, are crowned royalty. Plucked from humble surroundings, heroes emerge from the most lowly places when the kingdom needs them most.

To outsiders, life inside castle walls conjured images of royal balls and rooms filled with glittering bars of gold, servants ready to bend to every royal whim. Tables heaped with tender meats and fragrant fruits lined ballrooms swelling with beautiful music. There were vases of rare roses and great fireplaces roaring with glorious heat. A castle filled with beauty, safety, and most importantly, excitement. 

The truth was, however, not quite so glamorous. Prince Ventus Villiers would be the first to clarify that rather than romantic rendezvous and daring sword fights in beautiful rooms, being a Prince was more or less a bunch of listening to old men prattle on and signing your name on papers you hardly understood. Why would people want to be a _Prince_? Why wish to sit behind a desk all day in clothes that pinched and suffocated when you could be outside with the wind in your hair doing something actually _important?_

One might assume Ventus arrogant or (perhaps naïve) for being born into such a life of luxury and not appreciating it. However, there could be nothing further from the truth. It was _because_ Ventus has grown from boy to man in such grandeur and safety that he wanted outside so badly. He wanted to be with his people, hearing of their struggles, shouldering their burdens. Ventus knew that the life he enjoyed was not typical. He was blessed to have everything he could ever dream of. He just wanted his people to have it too. He hated having so much while others had so little. He hated not being able to just _fix things._ There had to be a solution, and he sure as hell hadn’t been able to solve it inside these stone walls. 

For a person with so much power, it often felt like Ventus had none. Each day was carefully planned, endlessly brimming with mundane and tiresome chores. When Ventus became King, he hoped he might regain some semblance of control over his life. Then again, being King came with a whole new set of responsibilities, he supposed. 

Ventus didn’t hate being a Prince so much as he hated being _this kind_ of Prince. Surely other Kingdoms lived differently. Why should he be hidden away from the public, shielded from the very people he was supposed to lead? Ventus wanted _out._

Of course, it was never quite so simple. 

There was the fact Ventus was an only child, first off. Had there been another heir, perhaps the stranglehold on his life might have been less suffocating. Queen Namine had refused to remarry after the death of King Snow, and so Ventus never had a sibling. If Ventus were to die, it would mean the end of his family line. 

Then there was the war. The conflict had begun long before Ventus was even a dream in his mother’s mind. His great-grandparents had been murdered by the Night King, Saix, decades before. The story was tragic. Even now Ventus remembered the way his mother told him the story, voice low and sad. 

* * *

  
**According** to legend, King Lea had ventured too far into the wild hunting a rogue creature that had become something of a nuisance to the townspeople. Ventus couldn’t remember what the creature was— some kind of Flood, probably— but there were so many variations of the monster in the story at this point that it could have very well just been a bear or wolf. 

Regardless of details of the battle, it ended badly. Lea was injured and left nearly dead. As his strength continued to fail, his advisors sought outside help.

Far away in the Shade, lived Kairi. Kairi was of common birth and extraordinary beauty. The daughter of alchemists, she grew up assisting her neighbors in their time of need. Her parents taught her the right kind of flowers to cure headaches, the way certain charred wood could break fevers. Her healing skills were unrivaled on the continent. 

Despite her humble start, adulthood saw Kairi folded into royal affairs. She was housed in the castle and given the official title of Royal Alchemist by the time she was old enough to live on her own. In her work caring for those in service to the Court, she inevitably met the King himself. 

One look at Kairi and Saix was smitten. She was beautiful and strong, knowledgeable of pain and sickness, and a worthy candidate for Queen. The two were hastily wed, heralding in a new age in the Shade. Kairi and Saix welcomed a child together and watched the expansion of their domain. 

Meanwhile, King Lea continued to deteriorate. Seeing no alternative, a Brightling courier arrived at the Night Court to beseech the monarch’s mercy and ask for their Queen’s renowned healing skills. Much to her husband Saix’s displeasure, Kairi took pity on the plight of the neighboring Court. 

Saix had ambitions to continue to expand his kingdom and the death of Lea would provide an easy opportunity to take land from the Bright Court. He urged Kairi to remain at his side, but the Queen would not be swayed. Leaving her husband and young son, Marluxia, behind, Kairi left for the Bright Court to help their King Lea. 

The situation was already dire when Kairi arrived at Lea's bedside. She poured everything she had learned into his care. The infection had spread and she feared that her help had come too late. Regardless, she toiled night and day, administering the healing herbs and oils, wiping Lea’s fevered brow and making him drink bitter potions. 

She was as surprised as anyone when she awoke one morning to find Lea sitting up, flesh pink and healthy, eyes bright. 

Though he had grown weak due to the weeks confined to his bed, Lea still retained the beauty and poise of one befitting his station. The Night Queen had never had time to pause and admire Lea before. As he leveled his emerald eyes upon her, she felt as if she were a flower finally set to bloom.

She stayed by his side, nursing him to full strength. They spoke endlessly of their lives, their hopes, and dreams. She shed her petals for him, and fell as madly in love with the Sun King as he did her. 

When the time came for Kairi to return to the Shade, she did so with sorrow and fear. Lea’s warmth and kindness had made so apparent her own unhappiness in her marriage to Saix. She wasn’t sure how she could possibly carry on as before. 

It was hard on both Kairi and Lea, but they made do. As much as possible the two met under guise of diplomatic negotiations. Under their care, the Bright and Night Courts began a quiet sort of alliance. 

But Saix didn’t want peace— he wanted power. 

When she became pregnant again, Queen Kairi worried about the implications. Inside her she bore the heir to two Kingdoms, she was sure. 

To complicate the situation, the girl was born with green eyes and the pale skin of her father. Rather than expose her infidelity and risk the life of her daughter, the Queen secretly sent the child away to be raised by Lea’s wife, Larxene, in her stead. Princess Claire would never meet her birth mother. 

The tears of mourning a child born dead and a child pried from her mother’s arms to be raised by another look much the same to outside eyes. 

Saix took the loss of his second child much better than the Queen. She became distant and cold, using every excuse to leave the Shade to negotiate this-and-that with the Sun King and Queen. As Kairi withdrew, Saix’s suspicions grew. 

The trashed culminated when, unannounced, Saix and his retinue arrived at the Bright Court under the guise of supporting his wife’s diplomatic negotiations. The details again grew hazy in the tale, but the ending was always the same: After catching Kairi and Lea together, in a jealous rage, Saix murdered them both. As revenge for the perceived infidelity, Saix vowed to end Lea’s entire line and claim all of the Bright Court’s land. 

And so the War of the Eclipse began. 

* * *

**Ventus** always hated the story. He hated how something as beautiful as love had ended in such needless bloodshed. In the Sun Court it wasn’t uncommon to have more than one spouse. The idea of _owning_ someone— the way the Nightlings seemed to believe they owned their partners— was horrifying. He didn’t understand Saix’s jealousy. What should have been a joyful event— a daughter born to unite two Kingdoms, a daughter of dawn or twilight— instead ignited a bloody war that raged to this day. 

It seemed so _silly_. It would have been funny, had so many not died as a result. A deep and painful anger threatened to eat Ventus alive if he dwelled too long on the senseless violence. 

* * *

**The** morning Ventus was supposed to die started like any other. 

At dawn, his advisor and dearest friend, Skuld, entered his room and threw wide the curtains. Ventus groaned at the offensive brightness of the rising sun. If it were up to him, days would not start until noon, allowing more time for precious sleep. 

Ventus seemed to always be tired. He could fall asleep even in the most unlikely places. Once Skuld found the Prince asleep on his feet as he was being fitted for a suit. She had no idea how he did it. 

Perched on the edge of the Prince’s bed, Skuld pressed a finger to his nose and poked gently, urging him to wake up. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” she laughed. 

Ventus groggily blinked his green eyes open and frowned. “Can’t we just put off whatever it is you want me to do today?”

Skuld laughed again, a silvery sound, and pulled back the heavy coverlet. Ventus instinctively curled into himself, mourning the loss of warmth and comfort of his blanket. 

“You’re due in the lecture hall soon. Get dressed before Vexen hunts us both down.” Skuld rose to her feet and tossed a pillow at Ventus playfully. 

Ventus groaned. He could think of about a million better things to do than listen to Vexen lecture him on etiquette and history. Reluctantly he rolled out of bed and shivered as his bare feet touched the chilly floor. 

“If you hurry up, I’ll bet you can catch the paopu galettes while they’re still warm.” At the mention of this, Ventus’s mouth watered as he imagined the tangy citrus flavor. 

Ventus dressed quickly and slid out from his room as quietly as possible, keeping to the staff hallways, as he made his way to the kitchen. While Ventus was a bit of a troublemaker to those in charge of his daily duties, he was completely adored by the staff of the castle, so the Prince’s location remained secret. As he passed the staff in various stages of work, Ventus made sure to smile warmly.

Ventus knew the name of every person who worked there. He tried his best to also remember at least one thing that made each person unique. For example, Irvine, the farrier, had a fondness for apples. Ventus tried to send some his way whenever the opportunity arose. One of the maids, Aerith, loved the smell of fresh flowers. Ventus asked for her to fill the castle with fresh blooms. He always smiled now when he saw her gathering bouquets of iris, hyacinth, and lillies in the garden. 

When Ventus reached the stairwell he caught the eye of Pence (the librarian who loved to tell jokes) and the two men shared a knowing wink. This certainly was not the first time Ventus tried to sneak his way out of his Princely duties. 

“Sora’s just about to pull the next batch of pastries out of the oven, Your Majesty,” Pence muttered as Ventus passed. 

“I’m on my way there just now,” Ventus laughed. 

Picking up his pace, Ventus lightly jogged toward the back door of the kitchen and peered inside. The scent of buttery biscuits and sweet cake flooded the room and made Ventus’s stomach growl. The room seemed safe to enter. 

Ventus then caught sight of cinnamon brown hair, flour-streaked and wild, and slid into the room.

“Sora,” Ventus whispered.

The chef jumped, nearly dropping the bowl he held in his hands, and jerked his head in the direction of the voice. 

“You scared the daylight out of me, Prince Ventus,” Sora yelped. 

“Sorry,” Ventus replied sheepishly. “I wanted to sneak in before they had the chance to send someone after me.”

Sora laughed and sat the bowl down. He wiped his hands across his apron before heading toward a table in the back. He brought back a tray of golden pastries to place in front of the Prince. Ventus grabbed two hastily. 

“Do you have…?”

Sora scoffed and rolled his eyes. “As if I would forget your friends.” Sora walked to a cupboard and pulled out a lumpy canvas bag.

Ventus grinned as he shoved one pastry in his mouth and took the bag from the chef’s hands. “Shanks, Shora,” he mumbled, mouth full. 

With a short farewell, the Prince escaped back through the door he had entered from. 

* * *

**It** took a bit of creative side-stepping and hiding to avoid being seen by Ventus’s guard, Terra, on his way outside to the gardens. Ventus heard the tall man’s footsteps as he grumpily clomped down the hallways searching for his charge. If only Terra calmed down and stopped taking things so seriously, maybe he would have been able to find the Prince. As it was, Terra did _not_ find the Prince. 

When the coast was clear, Ventus ran to the edge of the garden to a little alcove partially hidden by tall hedges and wisteria. He sat down the bag Sora had given him and let out a low whistle. 

A nearby shrub wiggled in response to the sound. Ventus laughed as a comically round raccoon woke blearily and stumbled out of its napping spot in the shade.

“Hello there, Little Terra,” Ventus sing-songed at the animal. He reached into Sora’s bag and withdrew a day-old loaf of bread and handed it gently to the raccoon. 

Terra (the raccoon) eagerly plucked the snack from the Prince’s hand and began to tear into the flaky crust. At the sound of munching, another raccoon (Zexion) waddled into the clearing. Ventus had named all the raccoons after his guards, much to his amusement and their annoyance. 

Ventus tried his best to find a way to feed the portly creatures at least once a day. Sora had gotten into the habit of baking a few extra of each of his creations so that Ventus had treats to give to the animals. 

The raccoons certainly didn’t _need_ the pastries. When Ventus had found them years ago, sickly and thin, he just couldn’t turn a blind eye. The Prince had nursed the little kits back to health and became enamoured with their funny personalities in the process. He continued to visit them, cakes in hand, long after the kits had become adults. 

Ventus loved the raccoons. Even Skuld, who balked when he had tried to introduce her to the animals, reluctantly admitted to thinking they were quite cute. There was just something whimsical and fun about the fat little creatures. 

A third raccoon, the largest yet, named Donald, held out tiny black paws and stood on his hind legs, begging Ventus for a treat. Ventus handed over a biscuit and patted Donald on the head. 

As the raccoons enjoyed their breakfast, Ventus popped the second of his galettes into his mouth. The friends munched in companionable silence as the morning sun faded from pink to gold. 

Behind him, Ventus suddenly heard Terra (the human) calling out his name, exasperated. 

“You better not be feeding those raccoons again,” Terra (the human) yelled. 

Ventus snickered and poured out the remaining treats from the bag. He hid the sack under a bush to retrieve later and took a lingering look at the raccoons. 

“Duty calls, my friends,” Ventus sighed. 

Zexion (the raccoon) lifted his head, crumbs tumbling from his mouth, and grunted at Ventus. 

“You and me both, buddy,” Ventus responded to the raccoon. “I’d much rather sit here with you but if Big Terra finds us, he will take away your snacks.”

Donald (the raccoon) made a disgruntled noise and shoved a cookie from the snack pile into his mouth. Little Terra tilted his head at Ventus and blinked. 

The Prince laughed and shook his head affectionately. Maybe today wouldn’t be all bad after all. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not feed raccoons cookies.


	3. The Witch

_Because I could not stop for Death –_   
_He kindly stopped for me_   
_ The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. _

_ Because I Could Not Stop For Death, E. Dickinson _

* * *

**The** journey from the Shade to the Golden Kingdom was perilous. The land that spanned between the two Kingdoms varied from glacial mountain to boggy forest. Packing for the trip was an exercise in efficiency and sacrifice. What could you live without? What would you  _ die _ without? 

Vanitas himself had never made the journey. He had never had the need. Though his prowess with murder was well respected by the King, he hadn’t yet been put to a test such as this. Killing a Baron or military General was one thing… but regicide? This was big. He could not afford any slip ups. Vanitas could return home with evidence of the Prince’s demise or he could die. There would be no returning alive without a successful mission. 

He only had 7 days to succeed. Vanitas had to leave immediately. The journey to the Bright Court could take  _ days  _ if the weather didn’t cooperate. Vanitas prayed that it might hold out long enough for him to make it there quickly. Darkness willing, if he made good time, Vanitas could arrive at his destination in two days time. That would still leave him five days to find and murder the Prince. 

Inwardly, he groaned.

The quickest path to his goal was the most treacherous. He had no choice but to go through the windy mountains and skirt along the edges of their icy cliffs if he wanted to make it in time. If he took the long way, following the wide base, he could travel by chocobo, but that would take nearly five days to reach his destination. He simply didn’t have the time. 

So Vanitas packed lightly, donning his thickest clothing for protection from the cold, and set off toward the Great Mountain.

That was how Vanitas met the Witch. 

* * *

**Vanitas** had been battling the bitter winds for nearly three hours when he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of pained screaming. 

He had arrived at a fork in the road, with one route leading toward the summit of the mountain, his destination, and the other leading in the opposite direction, toward the sound. He hesitates. 

Again, the cry sliced through the atmosphere quick and sharp, rattling Vanitas’s bones. It was a feral scream, full of agony, and decidedly not human in nature. Vanitas paused as he debated which path to take. He didn’t have time to delay, but the cries of the creature were so gut-wrenching that he found himself pivoting in his boots toward the sound. 

Cursing himself, he trudged on into the vast whiteness, shielding his eyes from snowflakes that burned like fire. He was almost ready to give up finding the noise when he caught sight of a tangled mass of black ahead. As if sensing him, the creature let out a strained screech, voice warbling and growing weak in the process. Invigorated, Vanitas jogged toward the object and found a large black bird tangled in a hunter’s trap. 

Vanitas  _ tsked _ and knelt down in the snow, inspecting the damage. Drops of blood like rubies studded the white carpet. The contrast was jarring and made the assassin’s eyes hurt.

“A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, huh, friend?” Vanitas said quietly.

The bird struggled, fighting back against his hands as he tried to untangle the barbed wire from the beautiful feathers. 

“You need to settle down or you’ll hurt yourself more,” he chided. 

Beady eyes blinked at Vanitas, as if they almost understood.

Vanitas cursed as a spike sprung free and slashed across his hand. He grimaced at the pain but ignored the blood slicking his hands. He’d be damned if he came all this way to save this stupid bird just to have it die because he was licking his own wounds. 

Fighting against the bird’s talons and frantic pecks, Vanitas finally managed to free the creature from the wires. The bird fell limply into the snow and let out a sad little caw. Vanitas plucked the bird up, careful to avoid its wounds, and held it close to his chest, shielding it from the chilly air with his cloak. 

He couldn’t very well just  _ leave _ the bird now that he’d wasted so much precious time saving it, he figured. Rolling his eyes, Vanitas headed back the way he came and prayed that he wouldn’t have to carry the nearly-dead thing all the way up the mountain.

* * *

**Vanitas** had to carry the nearly-dead thing all the way up the mountain. He thought the bird had died on several occasions as he peeked into his cloak, but was always surprised to find it roosted happily in his pocket, sleeping away it’s trauma. 

As he reached the half-way mark, Vanitas happened upon a cave, the mouth of which receded into the giant mountain. Feeling fatigued, he decided it was as good a time as any to take a break. Perhaps the lure of a nice campfire might coax the little beasty out of his jacket and back into the wild.

So Vanitas entered the cave and sat about searching for materials to build a fire. He pulled dying branches from pine trees and gathered nettles for kindling. Rummaging through his pack, he pulled out a fire paper and rubbed the wavy page with his fingers, coaxing out the enchantment. Instantly his fingers warmed and he dropped the paper into the pile of branches. Blue sparks danced around the timber, setting everything it touched ablaze. 

Vanitas sat down with a sigh and carefully spread out his cloak, mindful to not disturb his sleeping companion. In the light of the flames, he inspected his wounded hand and set out to properly clean the gash. He winced as he melted snow onto his palm to wash away the dirt and debris, letting out a deep grunt of pain. 

At his side, Vanitas’s cloak began to move. 

“Ah, finally awake?” he laughed, holding up the edge of the fabric to let the bird escape. 

The bird squawked and shook it’s glossy feathers, as if the indignity of being shoved in a pocket was nearly too much for it to bear. The bird walked out calmly and closed its eyes, enjoying the heat of the fire. 

Vanitas chuckled to himself and returned to studying his cut. Beside him the bird bristled and stretched its wings. Sensing that it was now to be ignored, the bird flew up to Vanitas’s hand and perched lightly on his still bleeding hand. 

“What now, silly bird?”

The bird cawed and butted it’s head against Vanitas’s mouth. He jerked back in surprise, knocking the bird off balance. He felt the talons release their grip as a glaring brightness enveloped the darkness of the cave. Shocked, Vanitas fell onto his back. In the blinding light he was just able to make out a tornado of feathers, and his heart momentarily caught in his throat. 

As sudden as it had begun, the light was gone. 

Vanitas blinked, eyes adjusting again to the gloom. Shadows danced across the cave walls as the fire flickered uninterrupted, as if nothing had happened. The assassin forced himself back up and scanned the room for the bird. 

Instead he found the Witch.

She was taller than Vanitas, with black hair as shining and glossy as her feathers had been. The same curious eyes stared back at him and the Witch smiled, tilting her head in a very bird-like manner. 

“You saved me,” the Witch said, clasping her hands together and grinning. She spun in a circle, a black dress of feathers rising up to show off shapely legs and fine boots. 

Vanitas gaped. “What…?”

“My name is Rinoa,” the bird-turned-girl explained. “I had been attempting a new spell and, as you can see, I must have gotten the calculations mixed up because instead of sprouting  _ wings _ , I turned myself into a  _ whole bird _ .”

Vanitas looked at the Witch dumbly. He had little experience with magic and even less with Witches. He knew enough to avoid their kind, and so far that had served him just fine. 

“You’re such a kind man to save a little bird,” Rinoa continued gently. “How can I ever thank you for breaking the spell?”

“But I didn’t… do anything.”

She laughed. “Your kiss broke the spell, of course. It’s the oldest trick in the book. When I headbutted you, it was enough to set me free. Had you not come along and released me from that trap I would have surely frozen to death.” 

The Witch walked up to Vanitas and grabbed his hands in hers. “But first things first.” 

She closed her eyes and squeezed his hands, and Vanitas felt a tickling sensation shooting up from his palm and toward his heart. 

He recoiled from her touch but she took no offense. When Vanitas brought his hand back up to inspect it, he was amazed to find that his wound was completely gone. He wiped away the remainder of blood and all that was left from his cut was a little raised scar. The skin had magically stitched itself back together, doing in seconds what might have taken weeks ordinarily to heal. 

He had never seen such magic before. “How did you—?”

Rinoa waved him off and danced back to warm herself by the fire. “Now that we’ve taken care of that, I suppose I owe you my thanks.”

Vanitas frowned, concerned about the implications of accepting a gift from a Witch. 

“Ah, I know! Since saving me has delayed your journey…” Rinoa stepped out of her boots and held them out toward Vanitas. 

“I can’t take those, you’ll freeze!”

The Witch laughed and smiled warmly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine.” Vanitas tentatively accepted the boots as she went on. “These are no ordinary shoes, brave traveller. These are enchanted to help you cover great distances in only a few steps. Be careful of your direction before you set off though, because one step will take you seven leagues.”

Vanitas looked down at the leather skeptically. They didn’t  _ look _ like magical boots. 

“Next,” Rinoa continued, slipping a delicate silver ring off her finger, “I give you the gift of truth as thanks for taking care of me even though I deceived you into believing I was a simple bird. May you no longer ever be deceived by lies.” She pushed the ring onto Vanitas’s ring finger and he gasped as it grew to fit him perfectly. 

He was about to ask what she meant by giving him the gift of truth when Rinoa grabbed his wrist tightly and pulled him toward her. 

Firelight sparkled in her dark eyes as she leaned in close enough for Vanitas to notice the feathers braided in her hair. “And finally blood for blood,” she said slowly. Her grip tightened on Vanitas’s wrist and her other hand moved quickly to push back his shirtsleeve. 

Vanitas tried to wrench himself from the Witch’s grasp to no avail. He watched in horror as her free hand came down to rest on his outstretched forearm and she began to speak a strange language under her breath. 

Vanitas’s flesh began to burn and he yelled out in pain. Rinoa continued her incantation undisturbed. 

Vanitas’s vision swam. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt before, as if his skin was being flayed from his bones, muscle by muscle. 

And then it stopped. 

He fell to his knees and Rinoa knelt in front of him, releasing his arm to gently smooth back his hair. The assassin gasped, disoriented, and looked down in disbelief at his arm. 

Where once unblemished skin had stretched across his body, he now found a swirling pattern of reds and oranges in the shape of a feather tattooed on his flesh. He held his arm up closer to his face. The colors seemed to shift and move, sparkling and glowing faintly in the darkness. 

“What did you do?”

The Witch stood once again and stretched. “A life for a life,” she explained. “I’ve given you one of my feathers. Should you need it, it will heal you from even a mortal wound. But be warned: it will only work once.”

Vanitas stared in awe at the markings on his arm. “How does it work?”

“How does any magic work really?” She said more to herself than him. “When the time comes that you need to use it, just say my name and the spell will be cast.”

“Is this some kind of trick?” he hissed, frightened by the gifts. 

“You’d be able to tell if I were lying,” she said calmly, gesturing to his ring.

“What do you mean?” 

The Witch sighed, exasperated that the man was not simply  _ grateful. _ She looked him squarely in the eye and spoke clearly. “My hair is red.”

Vanitas raised a brow, confused, because her hair was  _ absolutely not _ red. It still hung in darkblack waves around her shoulders. 

Suddenly the ring began to shake on his finger, sending little jolts of vibration across his hand. He stared curiously at the ring and then looked back up at Rinoa. 

“So it… can detect lies?”

“Well, more like it helps you see the truth.”

He wasn’t quite sure what the difference between the two statements was, but he marveled at the metal on his finger and touched it reverently. 

“How do I thank—“

She held up a finger and pressed it to his mouth, silencing his thanks. “Just accept  _ my  _ thanks and consider us even. I don’t like owing debts.”

Vanitas nodded. 

“I think it’s about time I headed home,” Rinoa yawned, running long fingers through her hair. “I desperately need a bath. I smell like the  _ woods.”  _ She wrinkled her nose and grinned at Vanitas. 

He was about to ask her how she intended to scale the mountain barefoot when he noticed her body begin to shimmer. Like the way heat distorts the road on summer days, her image warped and swirled before him. 

Her voice sounded very far away suddenly. “And remember, just say my name if you need to use my mark.” 

And then, between one blink and the next, the Witch disappeared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, your comments and kudos warm my little black heart. Wuv you.


	4. The Syzygy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well lanky lizards. You all have liked this a whole lot more than I thought you would. Thank you for all the encouragement and kudos!

_Every Night & every Morn _   
_Some to Misery are Born_   
_Every Morn and every Night_   
_Some are Born to sweet delight_   
_Some are Born to sweet delight_   
_Some are Born to Endless Night_   
_We are led to Believe a Lie_   
_When we see not Thro the Eye_   
_Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night_   
_When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light_

_-Auguries of Innocence, W. Blake  
_

* * *

**It** all seemed like a dream. Vanitas would have thought he had imagined the whole meeting with the Witch had it not been for the boots on his feet, the metal weighing down his finger, and, of course, the strange mark on his arm that seemed to shift and change all on its own. 

The assassin shifted on his feet, careful to not take another step for fear he might send himself careening into the Golden Kingdom’s shining marble walls. He knelt down gracefully to sit and tugged off the black boots. He held them in his hand and inspected the unremarkable leather, the mundane laces, and wondered how exactly the shoes had propelled him so quickly from one place to the next that he nearly made himself sick. The journey, that should have taken days, had been completed in a matter of moments. Vanitas found himself blinking at the sky, bewildered at his luck.

After tucking the boots away into his pack and swapping them for his decidedly non-magical shoes, Vanitas set off into the densely wooded area that surrounded the Bright Court. At the base of a giant tree, roots reaching out from the dirt like monstrous hands, Vanitas hid away his cold weather gear and lightened his load. Stealth was the name of the game now, and cloaks had a tendency to cause unnecessary dramatics. He secured his bag of poisons to his belt and his daggers to each leg and arm. Using a spare bandage, he wrapped the glowing Witch Mark on his arm, concealing it from prying eyes. 

The cacophonous sound of twilight had nearly fallen upon him. All around the cicadas cried and fireflies began their crepuscular show. Vanitas drew up his black hood to shield his face and waded deeper into the tangle of trees like a lion stalking its prey. 

* * *

**  
Prince** Ventus had a secret. 

Born out of a reckless need to be anywhere but there, Ventus never thought twice when the opportunity for escape presented itself.

It first happened when Ventus was 10. He had been summoned to his mother’s side as she served as judge and jury, deciding arguments between townsfolk. It was as boring an affair as usual. 

That was, at least, until Roxas was shoved in front of them. 

Ventus’s mother stifled a laugh, looking at the messy boy before her to Ventus. The Prince knew what the Queen was thinking immediately because he had thought it too. 

_Shapeshifter_.

Of course, shapeshifters were only _legends_. Roxas was a human boy. A human boy who had an uncanny resemblance to the young Prince. The minor differences between which could only be discerned by the keenest of eyes. 

Roxas was the stockier of the two, darker, with tanned skin and freckles dusting across his arms. His eyes were blue, unlike Ven’s green. His hair was the color of butterscotch, while Ven’s tended to be more on the spectrum of lemon candies. While the Prince’s face was open and friendly, Roxas scowled at the ground, hands in pockets, grumbling. 

Roxas had been brought before the Queen to answer for the crime of shattering a merchant’s window. Roxas maintained his innocence but refused to admit the identity of the real culprit. 

Roxas made it apparent that he had morals and would never betray a friend: Ventus realized, even at the young age of 10, that this tenacity in the face of authority was something to be envied.

The Prince whispered to his mother, eyes lingering over the boy toeing at the ground before them, and asked her to give Roxas a particular sentence for his supposed crime. The Queen smiled at Ventus’s request and acquiesced. 

And that was how Roxas became Ventus’s playmate. 

* * *

  
**Despite** the difference in their standing, Roxas and Ventus grew up together as any pair of friends might do otherwise. They spent lazy evenings catching frogs, ate lunch in the shade of trees, played with wooden swords inside when the weather was too blustery or wet. 

Ventus treated Roxas as an equal, sharing all he had with his friend, and in return, Roxas did the same. They became perfect mirror images of each other, wild boys who grew into gallant men. 

Now that they were older, Roxas spent most of his time at his store. He told tinctures of paint and supplies for art. Yarn and thread spilled over counters like rivers of rainbows. Fat, waxy candles in every color you could imagine lined shelves filled with oddities and trinkets. 

Ventus always wondered what kind of store it was, exactly, but could only settle on referring to it as Roxas’s Store, because nothing else quite fit. Despite his fondness for both Roxas and his strange atelier, Ventus rarely had time to visit. This was why Roxas was so surprised to see Ventus standing cloaked in the entryway that fateful day. 

“I need a favor,” the Prince blurted out immediately.

Roxas laughed and shut the door behind him, careful to take a quick sweep of the crowds outside. “No hello, Roxas, glad to see you, Roxas?”

Ventus pouted, prompting Roxas to punch his shoulder lightly. 

“That would be considered high treason in the Shade, I hope you know! You’re lucky I’m such a _merciful_ Prince.”

“Yeah, okay, sure. To what do I deserve this honor of your presence, _my liege?_ ” 

Ventus made a mocking face at Roxas and smirked. “Cut that out. Anyway, I need you to change places with me for today.”

Roxas crossed his arms. They hadn’t played at swapping places with each other for some months now. “What’s going on?”

“I just need a break… I know that once I’m crowned King on my birthday I’ll have even less opportunity to go out and explore. It was nearly impossible to sneak away long enough to get here.”

Roxas made a small, understanding noise. He knew Ventus liked to be around his people, liked to know the Court in ways that were simply impossible to grasp far away in the castle. 

“For how long?”

“All day.”

“ _All day?”_

“I want to visit the edge. I need to see the fighting. I need to see it with my own eyes. If I’m inheriting this war, I have to understand what it is I’m getting tangled up into.”

A hiss of air sailed through Roxas’s teeth. “Ven, that isn’t _safe_.”

Ventus waved off his friend. “I’ll be fine. I’ll go this evening, after I close your shop. I’ll stick to the shadows. No one will even see me.”

“You’d better hope so,” Roxas grumbled. “If anything happens to you, it’ll be _me_ who pays.”

“If anything happens to me, you can just _be me_ , for all I care.”

Roxas floundered for words. “Prince Ventus, please don’t—”

But Ventus was already pulling off his cloak and removing his rings, handing them over to Roxas. With a sigh, Roxas tugged off his boots and kicked them over to Ven. 

Sometimes being friends with the Prince was a _royal pain,_ Roxas thought miserably. Still, he could not refuse Ventus. 

And so Prince Ventus and Roxas swapped places. 

###

* * *

**  
Vanitas** heard the crying long before he found the source. Night had fallen as he skirted the edge of the woods, hidden in the long shadows of willow trees, the assassin took in the wreckage on the plains just ahead. 

There had been a battle here, that much was obvious. As to who had won, Vanitas couldn’t be sure. Bodies remained strewn along the grass like discarded dolls, legs akimbo, eyes glassy and unblinking. Nightlings in their somber chainmail rested next to Brightlings, shining in jeweled armor and golden tunics. Even from a distance, the ground was dark with blood. 

Somewhere in the tangled masses there came a cry. Curious, the assassin, still obscured by the forest, wandered closer to the shouts.

This time the sound was definitely human. It could be a trap. Or maybe it was simply some unlucky fool left to die alone on the battlefield. Vanitas, still unsure as to whether more troops lay in waiting, hurried up the closest tree with a vantage point of the scene and nestled down.

He rested there for a time, running through possible tactics for his mission. There would be no entering the Court tonight, that much he was sure. A strange man wandering about in the sleepy towns ahead would draw more attention than if he simply waited until morning. It was always easiest to disappear in crowded rooms. Always simpler to become invisible surrounded by people. 

As he inspected the terrain from his tree and nestled down into the branches for the night, the crying became louder. The person was on the move now, it seemed, and drawing closer to Vanitas’s spot. 

A huddled form emerged in the inky dusk, large and shuffling. Vanitas looked closely as the figure— no figures— passed by. He wasn’t sure what to make of the pair of men. 

The shorter of the two, a Nightling, half-walked and was half-dragged by a taller man, a Brightling by the looks of it. Vanitas bristled, remembering the stories of how Brightlings liked to torture their enemies rather than offer them a quick death. 

The Nightling below cried out in pain and stumbled to his knees, gasping. The Brightling knelt down with him. Dark wetness dripped from the wounded man to the ground. 

“I… I need to rest for a while,” the wounded soldier rasped. 

“We’re so close to the city now, we just have a little further to go, and then I can get help and—“

There was a long pause and then a joyless laugh. “We both know that isn’t going to happen.”

The Brightling stiffened and shook off his hood, exposing wild yellow hair. He reached to his side and drew a canteen and pressed it to the wounded soldier’s mouth. The man turned away.

“Don’t bother,” the man said. 

The yellow-haired man made a sound of protest but tucked the bottle away. 

“Just need to… lie down for a bit, I think,” the Nightling said quietly. Over the crickets and chirping of frogs, his voice was nearly drowned out. Vanitas closed his eyes in concentration to pick up on the words. 

When he opened them again, the man was on his back, his head pillowed in the lap of the Brightling, who was brushing lank hair from his face. Vanitas furrowed his brow. Why would a Brightling go to this much trouble to torture a clearly dying man?

The man made a sputtering noise, a deathly rattle in his chest, and the yellow-haired man dabbed away the darkness wetting his lips. 

“What’s your name?” The Brightling asked softly. 

There was a pause before the man on the ground muttered out, “Zack.”

“Zack… it isn’t much further to the city. Just a little more to go.”

Zack raised a hand feebly and waved the other man off. It dropped heavily as if gravity had decided to double down. Vanitas could tell from the movement and the rattle in the man’s chest that he would die. 

Zack coughed, a wet, terrible sound. “You don’t need to stay here. No need for you to watch someone die.”

“No one should die alone.”

“Even an enemy?”

“I see no enemies here.”

Silence. 

Vanitas closed his eyes to focus his hearing once more. He listened as the crackling breath below him slowly quieted. He then blinked his golden eyes open to see the Brightling still petting back Zack’s fair gently. And then the man started to sing. 

It was a quiet song, low and sad. It could have been a lullaby or maybe a hymn, but Vanitas couldn’t understand the words. It must have been an old song for it not to be written in the common tongue. Vanitas leaned forward on his branch, entranced by the voice. 

And then the branch cracked and the singing stopped. 

Below him, Vanitas saw the yellow-haired man jerk his head up, searching the tree for the source of the sound. He drew a laughable excuse for a dagger and pointed it toward the sky. 

“Who’s there?”

The assassin hesitated before scuttling down, still concealed in the darkness. He didn’t feel like killing the man for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Especially not after witnessing such a strange show of compassion for his now-deceased compatriot. 

He could have run away. He probably should have. But Vanitas stepped tentatively around the trunk of the willow tree, careful to make just enough noise that the man would not be surprised. Instinctively, Vanitas touched one of the knives hidden at his wrist. 

“I’ll only ask one more time. Who’s there?”

“No one of importance,” Vanitas murmured. 

The man shielded Zack with his body, stepping between the two despite his charge already being dead. Vanitas cocked his head to the side and crossed his arms. 

The man leveled his pale eyes at Vanitas, dagger pointed toward his throat. Vanitas could have sworn that time stopped. For a moment the weight of seconds and minutes and hours and days dissolved into what he could only describe as the singularly rapturous vacuum of perpetuity. 

“Put down that dagger, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he choked out. 

The man hesitated but eventually lowered his hand. He squinted into the darkness, trying in vain to make out Vanitas’s features. 

“What is a little golden boy doing so far out so late at night? What are you doing to that Nightling?”

The man visibly tensed. “I’m not doing anything. I was trying to help him… I wanted to save him… I tried—”

“Well he’s already dead now,” Vanitas yawned. “Why are you still here?” He had to hold back a laugh watching the rage cross the man’s cherubic face. 

“I was… wishing him well on his next journey. What does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t. I was just curious.” Vanitas paused. Unable to stop himself he added, “What is your name, Brightling?”

“Ve—” the man coughed and stuttered, practically obscuring the word. “Roxas,” he then stated clearly. 

On Vanitas’s hand, he felt a strange vibration tickling his ring finger. “Roxas, the Brightling,” he repeated, skeptical. 

“Y-yes. And you?”

“Like I said, no one.”

“What are you doing here, No One?”

Vanitas chuckled. “Best if you didn’t know.”

Roxas furrowed his brows and frowned. “That’s ominous.”

Vanitas shrugged. 

“Are you headed into the city? I can show you the way.”

Vanitas’s jaw wanted to drop. How could one person be so stupid? Roxas had no idea who Vanitas was. The fool was sitting in the middle of a battlefield, alone, at night, covered in the blood of his enemy. A Nightling would take one look at him and kill him on the spot. Everything inside Vanitas screamed at him to do it. Instincts urged him to strike Roxas down. But his body did not move. 

It didn’t make _sense_. 

“Do you have a habit of taking care of strangers?”

Roxas smiled. He was radiant, even blood-soaked and crying. Vanitas felt as if he were being dragged deep underwater, claws of a riptide tearing him to the ocean floor. Breathless. Overcome. Drowned.

“You’re not a stranger. You’re No One,” Roxas laughed, wiping at his eyes. “I should… probably be going now though. You’re welcome to come along.” 

Vanitas expected the ring to vibrate, but it remained undisturbed. Roxas wasn’t lying. He really did intend to show Vanitas the way to the city. 

But that was stupid. That was weak. Vanitas didn’t need the pity of some suicidal Brightling to complicate his mission. However, the thought of separating from Roxas created a strange sense of panic within the assassin. Vanitas bit at his lip, struggling to make sense of the conflicting emotions. 

Roxas gently removed Zack’s head from his lap and removed his cloak to cover his frame. Standing, Vanitas took in the way Roxas stood proudly, shoulders square and regal. 

“It was… interesting to meet you,” Roxas said finally. “May the light guide you home.”

Vanitas had never heard the expression. The light was something that scorched, that burned. It didn’t guide, it blinded. Light exposed ugly truths and obliterated any sense of self. Light was dangerous. 

So why did it suddenly not seem that way coming from Roxas’s mouth? 


	5. The Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a week off to recharge, so here is the newest chapter a day early! I hope this isn’t getting too confusing or boring 🙃

_Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen,_   
_I have watched the strongest go -- men Of pith and might and muscle -- at your heels,  
Down the plantain-bordered highway,(Heaven send it ne'er be my way!)   
In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.   
Answer, sombre beast and dreary,   
Where is Brown, the young, the cheery,   
Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force? _   
_ You were at that last dread dak   
We must cover at a walk,   
Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse! _

_ \- The Undertaker’s Horse, R. Kipling _

* * *

**The** following morning, as the birds began their songs and the townsfolk blearily emerged from their homes, Vanitas crept into the Bright Court. He slyly pilfered a set of clothing still hanging out on the line to dry and swapped out his conspicuous dark clothing for the cottony and flowing fabrics favored by Brightlings. He could do little to hide his black hair, unfortunately, so he made a mental note to search for a hat if he had time. He supposed he couldn’t be the  _ only _ person in the kingdom with such dark hair, but still thought it best to try to blend in as much as possible. Idly he wondered if all Brightlings looked like Roxas. For his own sake, he hoped not. 

As Vanitas stalked the streets, mapping out roadways and markers, Vanitas pondered the curious way Roxas had shown mercy to the fallen Nightling. All his life, Vanitas was taught that those in the Golden Kingdom were vapid, fickle fiends who revelled in excess, be it torture or other vices. Roxas hadn’t seemed to be any of those things. On the contrary he seemed quite… gentle. 

It was a strange thought. 

The sudden chiming of bells in the distance forced Vanitas’s attention away from Roxas. He looked toward the sound, finally spying in the distance a great castle of gold and glass. With his destination finally in sight, he set off in the direction of the castle grounds, eyeing each escape route along the way. 

* * *

**The** Bright Queen was either stupid or arrogant, Vanitas had thought to himself. He casually strolled into the gated circumference surrounding the castle and was baffled at the ease of infiltration. All around him, merchants and commoners bustled to-and-fro, social classes mixing and conversing as if it were an everyday occurance. It was only years of practice carefully schooling his face into a perpetually unperturbed blank expression that saved Vanitas’s eyes from bulging out of his face. 

He had expected more of a challenge. He had expected guarded towers and moats filled with leviathans. He hadn’t considered that he could just  _ walk right in.  _ It was just  _ too easy.  _ It had to be a trick. The Queen and Prince must have caught wind of the Night King’s plot. He raised his guard. 

Vanitas made a deep rumbling noise of annoyance and doubled down surveying the layout of the ground. The market stalls were no good for hiding. The parapets were well-attended by guards. Frustrated, he slipped along the west side of the market, where the craft tables slowly dissipated into a field hedged by red roses. 

In the distance, Vanitas heard a commotion. A chorus of shouts rang out, eclipsed by a feral whinny. When Vanitas looked further down the field he spied a stable, and in the flurry of dirt and dust in front of it, a large black beast was surrounded by frantic stablehands. 

The beast appeared to have escaped his bonds, and reared up on two mighty legs, kicking out and sending its would-be capturers careening out of its way. The animal next barreled toward the direction of Vanitas. As it drew closer, Vanitas saw the dark and frightened eyes of the beast and felt a deep pang of sorrow. 

Vanitas understood fear.

For a moment, the assassin forgot his mission. Faced with the animal’s palpable terror, he felt he had no choice but to become involved. The stablehands were running toward them now, brandishing whips and ropes. Vanitas frowned and stepped to block the path of the beast before it could pass him. It skidded to a stop, gravel and grass spraying up beneath its hooves as it bucked in fear before him.

Vanitas held his hands out, palms up, and made a soft humming noise toward the black beast. It’s nostrils flared as it snorted.

“Come now, you,” Vanitas said quietly. He reached toward the animal and gently placed a hand on its great neck. It’s skin rippled at the touch, as if it had never felt such a gentle sensation. 

The creature pounded another massive hooved foot toward the ground and Vanitas jumped back to avoid having his toes crushed. 

Undaunted, Vanitas reached out a second hand and smoothed it across the coarse black hair. He tried his best to make a soothing noise and blinked up to look at the beast’s eyes. Now calmed, he was able to see that it had a wall-eye. The pale blue color was piercing. 

“I won’t hurt you,” he told it, staring into its blue eye. 

Another stomp. 

“I won’t let them hurt you, either.”

A huff, then a light whinny. 

”Be still.”

As Vanitas pet the creature, he marveled at its strong muscles and proud face. He smiled then, and the beast pressed its head toward Vanitas’s chest, suddenly calm. The assassin scratched behind its tufted ears, and laughed at the happy noise that escaped the once terrified animal. 

The crowd from the stables had arrived behind them, but kept their distance, clearly fearful of the beast’s reaction. 

“You some kind of horse whisperer?” a brunet man asked. 

Vanitas looked at him blankly and continued to pet the horse. He had never seen a horse so  _ big _ before. 

“No one has been able to go near this one so far, and here you are with it practically nuzzling you at first sight.”

Vanitas shrugged, eyes still trained on black fur. 

The man stepped forward with a rope, which set the horse off once more. It yelled and stomped, refusing the lead. 

“Would you… mind helping us get him back home? He seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Vanitas scowled. A fine beast like this should not be made to fear its home. 

“We’re trying to save it, you know. It was supposed to be a birthday gift for Prince Ventus. My mistress sent me to deliver the brute, but… well… We can’t allow such a dangerous gift to hurt the Bright Prince. Such an act would risk the peace between his people and mine.”

“So you will see it killed for its pride?”

The brunet sighed. “I don’t  _ want _ to. But what can I do? This horse is unbreakable. I can’t hand him over to the Prince like this.”

The horse lipped at Vanitas’s messy hair and it’s warm breath tickled. The assassin smiled softly, sadly, and looked hard at the other man. 

The man coughed awkwardly. “Have you a job? What say you to working for me? If you can calm this beast, you’ll be forever in our debt. And his, no doubt,” he added while gesturing toward the horse. 

Vanitas considered the offer. 

“What is its name?”

“Pardon?”

“The horse!”

“Bucephalus,” the man said timidly. 

Vanitas looked to Bucephalus. Pretending to be a horse trainer was as fine a plan as any other to occupy his days while he planned a route to his mission. And besides, the horse was a gift for the Prince. With any luck, Vanitas might not need to go looking for Ventus at all— the Prince might come to the stable of his own accord to see his new prize. How brilliant that would be! Vanitas could murder the Prince in his very own stable and then ride away with his steed. 

Vanitas smiled at the man. That was how Vanitas started to work at the stable. 

* * *

**The** brunet stablemaster, a man by the name of Hayner, explained to Vanitas that he had sailed from across the Mirror Sea from his homeland of Scala Ad Caelum to deliver the horse. 

Vanitas had never heard of such a place. 

As Hayner described his mistress, the Pirate Queen, Xion, and her misty, romantic nation built along the coast of the Mirror Sea, Vanitas felt himself shrinking. Suddenly the world became much larger, and in its expanse he felt insignificant and small. 

How many other worlds were there? All of Vanitas’s life had been focused on the dueling between the Night and Bright Courts… to know a life existed outside of the two left him nearly breathless. 

* * *

**The** rest of the day passed peacefully. 

Vanitas spent the daylight with Bucephalus. He brushed and sang to the horse, fed it apples from his hand. Vanitas was fond of the black beast. He made up his mind that he would not allow the creature to be destroyed. 

As the sun began to lower, the sky turning from blue to orange fire, Vanitas felt a peculiar sensation ticking his neck. 

He was being watched. 

As subtly as he could, Vanitas cast his eyes across the paddock where Bucephalus grazed happily. Like a magnet, his golden eyes found the source of his apprehension leaning against the white fence, setting sun obscuring the details of the person’s face. Vanitas squinted into the light and took a tentative step in the stranger’s direction. 

He blinked in surprise. The words came out before he had a chance to think better of it. “Roxas?”

The figure straightened himself and tilted his head. A cloud passed overhead, removing the glare from Vanitas’s vision, and revealed that it was indeed Roxas. He was dressed in a fine suit and clean of any dirt or blood, but Vanitas was certain. 

“Is that not you?”

The man paused for a moment. A strange look crossed his face. “R-right. Yes, have we met?” 

“We met on the battlefield’s edge last night,” Vanitas said. His heart pounded. 

Roxas’s eyes widened and he stepped up onto the lower part of the fence excitedly, leaning over to get closer. “You’re No One!”

Vanitas tried unsuccessfully to stifle a smile.  _ Why was he doing this?  _

“I see you did have top secret business in the city then!” Roxas laughed, pointing toward the horse. 

“You know Bucephalus?”

“Ah… only… through word of mouth. I came to take a look at him myself. He hardly seems the demon everyone has made him out to be.”

“He’s no demon,” Vanitas growled. 

Roxas smiled. He was about to speak once more when Hayner exited the stable and shouted in their direction. 

“Who goes there?” 

Hayner jogged toward Roxas at the fence and slapped a callused hand on the man’s shoulder, turning him to get a look at his face. 

“Y-you’re!” Hayner shouted, upon seeing Roxas’s face. “Your maj—”

“The name is Roxas,” Roxas said loudly, interrupting the stablemaster. He smiled at Hayner, who took a step back.

_ Curious _ . 

“R-rox-”

“Yes, call me Roxas. I’m just here to admire your beautiful horse. Pay me no mind, I meant no offense.”

Hayner gaped at the blond man. 

Bucephalus took this moment to butt his head at Vanitas’s back, shoving the assassin forward toward Hayner and Roxas. Vanitas stumbled just a bit before he caught his balance. 

Roxas laughed. The sound sent blood rushing to Vanitas‘s cheeks. His face felt hot and swollen.

Hayner coughed and took a step back. 

“Would you be so kind as to walk with me and tell me more about your horse,” Roxas inquired, as he turned his eyes away from Vanitas.

Hayner dipped his head respectfully. 

With one last soft smile, Roxas waved to Vanitas and Bucephalus. “I’ll come back see you tomorrow.”

Vanitas wasn’t sure if he meant  _ Vanitas _ or  _ Bucephalus _ , and the confusion roaring in his ears sounded like the pounding of hooves or the crash of waves. 

_ Why should it matter anyway? _

* * *

“ **Forgive** me,” Hayner cried. “Your majesty, I did not know you went by another name.”

Ventus clapped a hand on the diplomat’s back. “All is well, good man. However… I would greatly appreciate it if you kept this to yourself. It’s not often I am able to interact with someone who knows nothing of my station. It makes for refreshing conversation.”

“Sir?”

“Your new trainer— please continue to allow him to refer to me as Roxas. I’d like to know him not as the future King, but just as any other man might.”

“Are you  _ sure?” _

Ventus laughed warmly. “Please allow me this kindness.”

“Of course!”

And that was how Prince Ventus deceived the assassin and avoided death once more. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairytales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairytales.”
> 
> I... have no idea what I’ve done.


End file.
